


Believing in Magik

by MasteroftheCrypticArts



Category: Marvel 616
Genre: Alternate Universe, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Marvel Comics - Freeform, What if?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 15:07:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17226296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MasteroftheCrypticArts/pseuds/MasteroftheCrypticArts
Summary: WHAT IF MAGIK BECAME SORCERER SUPREME?—"As a child, Illyana Rasputin was transported to a hell dimension called Limbo. Its ruler, Belasco, trapped her there for seven years. Illyana was eventually able to overcome Belasco and escape from Limbo—but when she emerged, only seconds had passed on Earth."As a teenager raised in Hell, Illyana struggled to readjust, finding herself hunted by the past...by the unknown outer limits of her powers...by the fear that Belasco would return."What if this fear had driven her—away from her friends, family, and the new mutants? What if Illyana...walked away?"Who would she become?"Inspired by What If? Magik.





	Believing in Magik

❝My name is Illyana Rasputin. I am 16 years old. For many years, a man named Belasco tried to bury me. But I demanded to grow. This is the beginning.❞

 

 

Far be it from me to admit having a tendency towards compassion but even from a young age, I had a deeply rooted desire to help others. I wouldn't have gone into medicine if I hadn't wanted to heal people, albeit only physically. I wasn't ever really good at supporting people emotionally. It made receiving the heartfelt gratitude of many patients, their friends, and-or their family, awkward. All I needed was my sense of accomplishment, due, _prestigious_ recognition, and my paycheck. But that sense of accomplishment, that mode of self-actualization, was always at the roots of everything I did. I was always compelled, like a desert-stranded wretch chasing mirages, to _help._  
  
But only when it suited me. If any of those three, aforementioned key components was absent from a proposed case, I wouldn't raise a finger.  
  
Turning to a career (if it can even be called that) in magic was a gale which snapped that tree—mishapen and sickened with disease—at its base, felled it, and only left behind its roots of pure intent.  
  
When I crossed paths with Illyana Rasputin, I didn't expect a new, healthy sapling to sprout.  
  
  


✦

  
  
_WHACK!_  
  
The girl rammed an old, nearby broomstick into the solar plexus of a man who had cornered her in an alley with the most atrocious intention conceivable. He didn't even get a second to wheeze before she batted his glasses right off of his face—hard enough to take blood. Before I finished reciting the incantation sybillating my tongue, she whacked her assaulter off his feet, he hit the ground, and she cracked her weapon down on his skull.  
  
"SHACKLES OF SHEOL!"  
  
Bands of magenta light snagged my target, stringing her taut in suspension, woven like an intricate spider's web. She dropped the splintered rod and gasped, a sharp hiss sucking through her teeth. As she struggled, I descended on the scene, lowered to the gravelly ground by my trusted cloak. When she saw me, she began to writhe more frantically.  
  
"I'm not gonna hurt you," I said, fairly sure that I might be lying. I had tracked her by a string of _scenes_ she trailed along Interstate 20. The informant who alerted me to her menacing presence bridged a gap to a case that I had been following until the trail ran cold. I had been eating this girl's wake since she cropped up in Westchester County, New York and it was like she had dropped off the map completely. My informant claimed that there was no rhyme or reason to the attacks on I-20 but it was an unmistakable _stench_ present at each new scene that revealed these incidents were the products of the same being. I had seen what she left behind. She had to be stopped.  
  
Still, I stepped closer to her with my hands raised.  
  
"LET ME GO!"  
  
"I only want to talk—"  
  
She screamed.  
  
Mirror Dimension burst open.  
  
The girl's chest heaved as fractals of the reflective realm pinwheeled around us. Her eyes darted about, trying to make sense of what she was seeing. I displaced us in order to prevent her from attracting unwanted attention but forgot that most people get frightened by suddenly shifting between dimensions. I watched her for several moments and considered dosing her with the Mists of Morpheus when her distress didn't subside. Then I caught sight of the unconscious (or dead) body of the assaulter laid out on the ground. Repulsion expelled the idea with the fiercest reproach. Instead, I stood silent and waited, expectant of an unsurprising reveal.  
  
That never came.  
  
You see, in my line of work, I encounter all manner of beings, from the incorporeal to the _multi_ -corporeal. You should also bear in mind that the Multiverse is _vast_. Even with all the experience I have, there are still myriads of realms that I haven't seen, explored, or even _heard of_. When setting my sights on this girl, I didn't quite know what I was in for. I expected her to be some kind of shapeshifter using the guise of a young malnourished, female (read: innocent-looking) human to lure in prey. In my observation, the essence of her being indicated that she was certainly more than she appeared to be. But I didn't expect her human form to be her _primary_ form. Now that the context had become a little clearer, our current situation lent _certain implications_ that made me uncomfortable. But I didn't let my resolve waver. As far as I knew, this young girl still posed a threat.  
  
"Name yourself," I commanded. The girl pulled on her binds, teeth gritting on a snarl.  
  
" _You're joking right?_ "  
  
"No. Who are you and from what realm do you hail?"  
  
A defiant noise abraded her vocal cords. A feral one, she was.  
  
"Growling at me like an animal won't do you any favors."  
  
"Well you already have me _tied up like one_."  
  
"Last I checked, insects don't growl."  
  
She thrashed at me.  
  
"Name and place of birth. Or...creation. Or conception. Whichever noun fits."  
  
She stared at me. Her hands were knotted into white-knuckled fists.  
  
" _Illyana Rasputin of Planet-fucking-Earth._ " I almost blinked at her. She added, "And what am I supposed to call you? How about Asshole? You _look like_ an Asshole to me—"  
  
" _My name is Doctor Strange_ ," I stated, bristled. A real _smartass_ too, evidently.  
  
"Sure it is."  
  
"You said you were from Earth," I continued very pointedly, "but your—"  
  
A bright yellow hole opened in the air. Illyana yanked it over herself with a just-managed wrist flick, breaking apart the Shackles with a harsh fizzle, and disappeared into its light. Alarmed, I lashed out my hands, having already adorned my Sling Ring by good fortune, and hijacked the young girl's escape route—transferring her from a snowy landscape to the New York Sanctum. I followed suit and set foot in the familiarity of my own home. The confusion I inflicted on my pursuee was only momentary, though. She fled through another portal.  
  
Trying to confine Illyana Rasputin was like trying to keep hold of a slippery fish; every time I looped her back into the sanctum, she dropped herself through my floor to a new destination. She was able to create doorways through sheer force of will, but I was able to match her reflexes despite relying on a piece of jewelry. I crowned her luminary discs with spinning sparks and so we cycled. We kept outstripping each other until the girl's persistence finally exhausted and she landed back my library on her bare feet with the nimbleness of a cat.  
  
She glared at me.  
  
"Are you done?" I asked.  
  
"Where do you keep dumping me?"  
  
"My house."  
  
"You think you're the first sorcerer to try trapping me in his home?" she bit.  
  
"You think you're the first person to try intimidating me with an implicit threat?"  
  
Illyana ducked her head, shadowing her eyes with her blond fringe. I could've rolled my eyes.  
  
" _You have no idea what you're dealing with._ "  
  
"You're right. I don't."  
  
My answer surprised her.  
  
"You're Slavic and you reek of Hell." A provisional pause flavored the only tidbits of information I had to share. Then I continued: "That's the extent of my knowledge."  
  
"So...what?" My turn to be surprised; her question wasn't the least bit hostile. "What does my tragic backstory matter? What good would that do you?"  
  
"The better question is, what good would that do _you?_ "  
  
Illyana seemed stunned. Then she quipped, "What a rude word to emphasize."  
  
"Not rude," I corrected, "considerate."  
  
" _Fine. You wanna know the sad story of my life?_ " I swear I almost perceived a fiery visage from the girl when she intoned her words. " _I lived in Siberia with my parents and older brothers until I was six years old. I was abducted, brought to this forsaken country, and then I was carried off to this_ special place in Hell _called_ Limbo."  
  
Limbo. I'd heard of it. Located in the Splinter Realms, on the fringe of the Nexus of All Realities. It was one of several hells, all interlocked to create the collective, capital H- _Hell_ , with itself positioned on the precarious edge of utter disparity from the rest of its nuclear family. I had never been myself, but I wasn't itching to take a field trip there any time soon.  
  
I knew what that place did to foreigners who entered it.  
  
"My kidnapper was the sorcerer supreme of the realm. A man named Belasco. He wanted to come back to this world, conquer it, and rule it. I was the means to that end."  
  
"But you escaped," I gathered. Illyana scoffed as if to snark, " _No shit._ "  
  
I drank this all in. I could feel the power emanating from Illyana Rasputin, and it surged over me in the form of profound pity. Her soul was horribly grotesque, deformed by years of captivity in that damnable dimension. It was so contorted—and, in some places, _distorted_ —that I couldn't help wondering how in _Hell_ she was even existing. People—humans who entered Limbo rarely left unscathed. Given enough time, their very beings metamorphosed, either by the manipulation of the sinister malcontents who resided there, or by the very realm itself.  
  
They became demons.  
  
" _He changed me. That was his biggest mistake._ "


End file.
